Last Man Standing
by zipscool
Summary: As I lie here, bleeding to death, listening to those sorry SOBs clawing for my flesh outside this barn, I think back, and wonder how someone previously obsessed with thoughts of revenge against these creatures... Came to become a saviour..."
1. Greg's Death

Had the idea while listening to 'Last Man Standing' by People in Planes. Main inspiration from 28 Days Later: Aftermath (that's the first comic book based on the franchise).

Disclaimer: I don't own Left 4 Dead or Left 4 Dead 2, all credit to Valve for making such an awesome co-op game in which you can enact your zombie-killing fantasies blah, blah, blah.

_

Last Man Standing: Prologue

I lie here inside a barn, some one hundred and fifty miles from what was my home, I almost chortle at the irony of it, but even trying brings excruciating pain. Two weeks ago, if someone told me this is the way I was going to die, I'd have laughed in their face, though I suppose I'd have done the same if someone told me that all of a sudden people would start suddenly start randomly turning into zombies, but here I am, listening to the fading noise of a plane propeller, hoping that those three other people, Alana, Sam, and that old bastard Tom have enough fuel to land themselves somewhere safe.

I on the other hand, have an appointment with an angry mob, a good portion of the roof of the barn's missing, like something blew it away, scorch marks make me think it was an explosion, and with all the chaos I saw this last month, it's not hard to believe. The doors shake, there's a lot of 'em out there, too many, sound of that propeller starting up drew a bunch of em, then a mutie, which brought even more with its fucking scream, bastard was wrapped up in a straight jacket, gray skin, sunken eyes, almost completely wasted away, maybe one of the first? Who knows, regardless, by the time I did that thing in, there were too many and the plane hadn't refuelled yet, and to make matters worse, that fucker Andy showed up with his lackey.

Well the joke's on him now, he's dead, don't know about his bitch, maybe he scarpered when he realised his glorious lord wasn't looking so hot with a fucking machete implanted in his face, maybe he got away, maybe he didn't, doesn't matter either way. I just wish I hadn't taken that bullet for Alana, maybe I'd be up in the sky if I'd just let her die... Then again, maybe we'd all be dead; plane wasn't halfway fuelled up yet as I mentioned, so I managed to lead most of those zombies my way during my fire fight with Andy, bullet wound and all, must've been the adrenaline. Anyway, I nailed Andy, and managed to get myself into this barn, which had definitely seen much better days, now I had the whole horde's eyes on me, and not the plane which took off not two minutes ago. I'm probably going to be called a hero for this, in whatever corner humanity's cowering, maybe they'll name a hospital after me, or a barracks, probably more suitable like that, makes me sick to think that they'd do something like that for me. I was an animal, driven solely by thoughts of revenge against the zombies who'd taken everything from me, my home, my dog, my friends, my own family... Torn apart right in front of my eyes... Let me tell you that no mind stays stable for too long after seeing that kind of slaughter.

Still though, there are occasions where I wonder, like now, whether retribution was what shaped me into the survivalist I became, and in turn helped me to get those three people to what I can now only pray is safety, and if God denies them that... Well, he'd better bring a legion of goddamn angels armed with the heaviest shit they can find because _that_ is what it's gonna take to stop me clawing my way up to his throne from Hell and tearing his head off for cheating me of this chance to go out knowing that somehow, I did something that mattered in this crazy, fucked up shit-hole. I hack and cough, accidentally angle my face the wrong way while clutching my wound and a gobbet of blood winds up on my face. I wipe it off with the arm that isn't numb and clutch my assault rifle, a bump in my side holster tells me that the service revolver my Grandfather passed on is still there, and I let go of my rifle and lay the revolver to my side in the haystack, so that once my last rounds are spent, I can just reach down and –

_BAM!_

The barnyard door bursts open, despite the fact that I was expecting this, I almost gawp, there seem to be hundreds of them, all glaring at me with the same rage/hunger expression that they seem to wear these days, all of 'em in different attire, or no attire in one or two cases. They don't stay still very long, they charge, I manage to pull up my rifle and sight, I'm taking as many of these fuckers down with me before I go, that much I promise myself. First target: mid-thirties, lacking a shirt, big gouges in his torso just below his neck, missing a few teeth, I squeeze the trigger, ignoring the pain coming from my chest as it absorbs the recoil, he falls over, a chunk of his cranium missing, that was for Toby, the only company I had in my lonely apartment. Next target: God help me this one's only a child, my nephew Ryan's age, a girl, probably a sweet-looking thing if it weren't for the ugly bruises indicating that she'd been beaten to a goddamn pulp before turning, squeeze, she drops, I don't bother to look at the damage, they're getting closer. Next target: bloody great big man, seven feet tall at least, wounds all over his hands, maybe he tried going hand to hand with them, I site and the bullet goes straight through the middle of his forehead, he drops with a thump, brain matter and blood caking the zombie behind him, that was for Ben, my brother and my conscience throughout my adolescent years. Next target: good lord did that tubbo even know what shaving was? Site. Squeeze. Thump, that was for my dear old mum. Next target: businessman, maybe, looked damn silly with his slicked-back hair and the partially torn suit he wore. Site. Squeeze. Thump, that one was for Dad, always supporting, always interested. Next target: Do my eyes deceive me? It's Andy's crony, whatshisname. Infection doesn't seem to have done him any favours, not that he was much to look at to begin with. Site. Squeeze. Squeeze. Thump. I shot him twice, once in the crotch and once in the face, more than necessary but satisfying nonetheless, see you in hell lackey, and give my regards to Andy, he's going to have a lot more to worry about than just the Devil before long. Next target: the closest one to me at only two metres, looked like a young woman, early twenties maybe? Doesn't matter, that fancy hair of hers isn't going to cheer anyone up if they saw you now Stacy – she had a nametag reading Stacy, or I think it was Stacy, my eyesight wasn't faring so well by that point – I lined her head up in my sight either way and squeezed the trigger –C_lack!_

Oh dear...

Dropping the assault rifle, I grabbed the service revolver and brought it up just as the bitch leaned in to munch on my throat. The force of the bullet threw the thing back into its friends, who just pushed the corpse aside in their desire to tear little old me into scraps of meat. I raised the revolver and, not caring if I hit any or not, fired with abandon, three shots, two of which hit, but only one put its target down, the other almost tore an arm off, it stumbled the bastard, but didn't down it, the arm hanging, disgustingly, by the unbroken flesh around the joint. The horde was now all but upon me, and I realised that I could save myself a lot of suffering if I turned the thing on myself, I quashed the thought as soon as it appeared. _Royal_ _Commandos don't get the easy work –_ I reminded myself _– We walk into the fire laughing and whether it burns or not, we goddamn well stay there until our work there is done. _Almost furious that the fear of pain had nearly driven me to suicide, I turned the pistol back on the mass of bodies above me, and in the split-second I thought I had to live, I heard a roar, not an animal roar, like a lion or some predatory beast would make, but one of barely contained power and rage. All of a sudden, bodies started flying everywhere, I was vaguely aware of a small dust cloud forming behind a press of bodies, and that the ground was shaking, like something large was coming, though that may have just been blood loss. Some of the zombies turned around, and something _smashed_ into them, knocking all of those hit metres away, hitting the walls or ground with such force that their bones pulped or their heads caved, I looked up into the face of death. Grotesquely mutated, the thing stood at a towering eight and a half feet at a guess, its arms and upper torso swollen with muscle, and its lower jaw missing entirely, either shot off or melded into the mass of flesh. It held its arms up and smashed them back onto the ground almost as if challenging me, well, even in as bad a condition as I was, I certainly wasn't going to take that lying on my back in a haystack. Trying my best to block out the screaming agony incinerating my body, I raised myself and looked at my pistol, four shots, I'd fired four shots, I looked back at big ugly, who was now charging.

"Another mutie eh? Well Brucie, I got two shots, seems like that'll be enough for you." I managed to spit, I then raised my revolver and fired one round right into its shoulder, the big fella _almost_ lost its balance, but kept coming, swinging a meaty paw at my head, I managed to duck below it, and quickly manoeuvred myself in front of it, so close that all I had to do was push the barrel of the revolver against its head and fire. That would have worked a treat, had it not enveloped me in its arms as I pulled the trigger, the round went off, taking off its left eye, but not touching the brain at all. I'd failed to kill it, it would now surely kill me, I could almost hear my bones creaking in protest as the creature sought to crush me in its meaty embrace, I could smell its rancid breath on my face, and hear its bellows of fury that one such as I had dared wound it in the company of its kin. I felt a few blows on my exposed legs and head, and the searing lance of pain that could only have come from a bite as the zombie horde, temporarily scattered by the arrival of this juggernaut, had rejoined the rather one-sided fight. Still, even as I felt cracked, dirty, rotten teeth dig into my shin, and another set of smaller, but slightly better kept chompers tear into my calf muscle, I couldn't help but feel a little better even as I began to think how it had all come to this:

I was going to die a lot less painfully than I thought I would...

_

I'm dog tired so I'm not going to bother typing anything here apart from: Constructive Criticism only, I can't get better if you're just shouting at me now can I?


	2. The Foe

Good god this is a looooong time coming.

Also, to the extremely nice guy who took the time to review the first chapter (Numbuh six-sixtysix): No, it's not Britain, but the main character is British. Hope you enjoy this one man.

Disclaimer: I don't own L4D or L4D2 etc. etc.

**Last Man Standing Chapter One: The Foe**

Dust... There's dust gathering everywhere now, doesn't matter what it is, where it is, or who used it before, the dust gets to everything eventually. I can see into to window of another apartment from my vantage point up here, a desk just sits by the window, almost like its waiting for its owner to return and sit at it, dust cakes the top almost like a grey frosting. There's not many zombies on the streets below, in the early days, they clustered around everywhere, hundreds of them filling the street, looking for things to kill. I remember I used to take my dog Toby for a run around this area, before he was killed, it was suicide to go out then, but they've cleared up since, dispersed, I remember hearing gunfire not too long ago, and spotting a helicopter heading towards that hospital, what's its name? Ugh, can't remember. I check my watch, yep, half-seven, about time I went out and did a bit of clean-up work.

Suited up, I feel like something out of a science-fiction film, Kevlar pads cover my body, providing protection from bites or blows from the zombies outside, I check my armoury: a closet with a fairly large array of firearms, and if I'm lucky, I'll add another one to my collection. Ammunition lies in a chest of drawers and has been divided depending on which gun it goes with, I'm feeling in a particularly bloodthirsty mood this evening so I grabbed a pump-action shotgun, a Police model Remington 870 if memory serves correct, and a bunch of 12 gauge shells. I slip the shells into several ammunition pouches in a set of combat webbing I 'borrowed' from a serviceman who was far too dead to care. I also took two pistols, one of which I always made sure was my grandfather's officer-grade service revolver, that gun was the sole remaining link to any of my now long-dead family, it had been passed on to my dad from my grandfather, and he had passed it on to me when I joined the Royal Commandos all those years ago. I also took a cord of det-tape (wire used for demolitions), some TNT, and two grenades that I'd also scavenged off dead army. To be perfectly honest, the thought of looting fellow soldiers (regardless of how long ago my service ended) made me sick to my stomach, but needs must, and from what the Church tells us, the dead have no need for hand grenades in heaven.

With that done, it was time to move out; I headed out of the Armoury, and made my way to what I liked to call 'The Gate', alright, it wasn't really a gate, well it was, but it was more like a trap door with a pulley system. I had the top two floors of the apartment sealed off and knocked down any pipes or grates the zombies can use – fuckers seemed fond of climbing the things to try and get at my innards, anyway I built this 'gate' to use as my main way out of the place, with a ladder on the fourth and fifth floors as well as the roof in case I needed another way out. A half-minute of navigating my way down and I was at the gate, I reached out for the lever and began cranking it back, surely enough, it began to pull upwards until eventually, I had a five-by-four foot hole I could ease my way through, but I didn't do that, no. If experience has taught me anything, it's that these zombies wander around like a kid in a toy store, they might gather near one place one day and the next; you won't see hide or head of them in that same spot. Of course that doesn't mean they aren't there... No, they're always there; it's just a case of luring them out so you can pick 'em off one by one, except I'm not going out today to kill just a few, I'm gonna kill a goddamn swarm of 'em, all I need is the right tools, I've got all but one of those right in my pockets.

I poke my head out first, with my shotgun not far behind – the riot helmet is clunky and makes moving my head difficult in confined spaces, but it provides some much-needed protection from bites, punches, or whatever shit comes out of them what infected them in the first place. Two of 'em, one of them in a pretty tattered and bloodied police uniform was lying down as if taking a nap, the other looking, no, _staring_ at a slightly tilted picture on the wall, as if it recognises it, poor sap has no idea what's coming his way: The first shot would have deafened me were it not for the earmuffs I, ahem, _built _into the riot helmet, the recoil was massive, but when the target's only two metres away and you're carrying a shotgun loaded with spread shot, that doesn't tend to matter too much. Much of the thing's upper body was shredded by the shot; it tumbled away half a metre from its original position, the stump of its left arm squirting out blood as it continued to pump its way around the body for a little longer before it finally died. The one on the floor suddenly sat bolt upright, and was craning its head towards me, facial features turning from that of waking up from a deep slumber, to surprise, to feral anger. It began to rise, clambering to its feet just as I swung the barrel towards its ugly mug next, if I'd looked in a mirror, there'd probably have been a glint in my eyes as I squeezed the trigger and target number two's head vanished in a red mist. I waited a minute, then two, waiting to see if the noise would attract any more, eventually five minutes passed with no noise or anything, so I assumed it was safe to leave.

I left the gate open; back in the early days, the undead massed around and charged at the slightest hint of human activity, they seemed unusually inquisitive, investigating every little sound, shine or crack, however once everyone was dead – or most of them were – they started wandering around like they were in a daze. Seeing as my 'gate' was a good few feet off the ground, unless they knew I was in there, they'd probably not bother trying to clamber in. I cleared the last four floors of the apartment building without much hassle; the ones who were here last night must have cleared off somewhere else, which I suppose was good, meant I'd use up less of my ammo. With home safe for now, I took to the streets, same policy as the Gate, head first, gun not far off, between fifteen and thirty of them, I frowned, I should've brought a silenced weapon, would've given me a chance to pick them off without giving away my own position. I fed five shells into the shotgun, now my weapon was fully reloaded at least, I contemplated what to do next, I could make a quick break for it, but that would've brought attention, I also couldn't move too quickly with all this protective gear on, and I'd inevitably have to take some of them out, which would bring more attention, and possibly force me back inside, which wasn't a good thing. Then again, it was getting pretty dark...

"Fuck it" I breathed to myself, trusting that their sluggish reflexes and the darkness would conceal me effectively enough for me to make my run and get back without taking too much damage, I bolted out, heading for a lorry which had collided head-on with a sports car. Five of them were in my way, and blessed be to the higher power that their reflexes are so sluggish to start with 'cause the first one didn't notice me until I slammed into it with my padded shoulder, bowling it over completely. Unfortunately, simply slamming into people, particularly zombies – does not kill them, and, while took it out of the party for a few precious seconds, also served to wake the dozy bastard up, I heard it snarling and scrabbling to get up as I continued sprinting towards the two vehicles, and the other closer creatures were starting to notice me, one made a start only to receive the butt of my shotgun to its face, the force of the blow shattered its skull, and dropped the thing, blood and cranial fluid oozing from its completely busted nose. I rounded the gun on the next one and squeezed the trigger; the spread-shot didn't give the thing a chance, leaving a shredded mess on the ground. I ducked low as my next opponent stepped up and swung at my face, with an opening in sight, I charged, continuing on for a few seconds until the thing completely lost its balance and fell to the floor in a frenzied heap. My final victim had lost its jaw to something; looked almost like it had been torn off by something, a dog maybe? Didn't do much for its looks, but then zombies weren't renowned for their aesthetics were they? I quite literally shoved my gun barrel down its throat and fired, well aware of the wet _splat_ of blood on the concrete. All present threats eliminated, I leapt on top of the Ferrari (I think it was a Ferrari – never was very good with cars), and then made a dash for the roof of the truck, by now, things were in full swing and the entire mob that had collected outside my humble abode was now haring towards me like I was prime steak '_I could go for some Steak right about now actually_' I thought to myself, before reloading my shotgun and assessing the situation.

All in all, a realist, or pessimist, would say that I am – without much doubt – completely screwed.

Well, I've proved so-called 'experts' wrong before.

I drew a mental perimeter around my temporary fort, anything that stepped into that would find itself torn apart by buckshot or .45 rounds if I had no time to reload. With that quickly mapped out, I set to work. First target: teen girl, silly thing dyed her shoulder-width hair purple – purple! With blue highlights! '_Teenagers_' I sighed to myself, then squeezed the trigger, and her rather stupid hair – along with a good portion of her upper torso – vanished in a red mist. Next target: Y'know, despite what stereotypes will have you believe, not as many of these Yanks are as fat as you'd think, probably had a fitness fanatic here, tracksuit and all, quite a muscular chap too, he'd probably do me some harm if I let him get close, so I didn't – he fell with holes all through his stomach. Next target: Good god, I'm not even going to tell you about this one, save that shooting it only made an improvement, and not just because it would no longer try to claw my eyes out. Next: Middle aged woman, fair amount of baby-fat on her, she'd probably given birth not too long before this all happened, made me think of the kid – was it still alive? Probably not. Squeeze, say hi to your kid for me missus. Next: Cripes he's already hopping up the car to my current position; another squeeze of the trigger took care of that little problem. I feel the truck shake beneath me; I looked down, surprised, were they actually trying to _throw _me off? In short: Yes they were, but not intentionally, they'd all crowded around the truck, those that weren't able to get onto the car to have an easy way up were trying to simply haul their way on top of the truck, none of them were tall enough, but their combined efforts were bumping the truck around, which had the effect of putting my aim off a little, and if I wasn't careful – I'd likely end up toppling off into their waiting mouths.

A snarl on my face, I pointed the shotgun at another zombie who thought he'd try the same route the last one had, pure bloodlust in its eyes. I didn't even dignify it with buckshot, instead bringing up the stock of my shotgun into its chin, knocking it off balance, a tap was all it took to push it off my throne and send a few of its buddies tumbling down with it. Not waiting for them to try the makeshift ramp again, I unloaded the last loaded shell into their filthy hides, the spread shot ripped through at least five of them, killing one and maiming the rest. Out of ammo, I threw the shotgun over my shoulder and drew one of the handguns I'd taken with me – a compact USP, and took aim at the closest zombie, sighting on its ugly mug. Squeeze. The thing dropped, a hole blown through its forehead. I swung around to my next victim, squeeze. Damn, didn't drop it, just winged it, though its arm wasn't looking too hot, and it looked for the moment that just hopping up and down in fury was all it could do for the time being. I turned back to the car, and unloaded three shots on one which was quite literally two seconds from leaping right on top of me, unfortunately, while doing the thing in, the shots didn't cancel the zombie's momentum, and it flew into me, knocking me off balance, seconds later, one of them had hopped up as well, and threw a punch which I couldn't defend against without having myself pitch off and into their open mouths.

So I took the blow... Not the smartest decision I've ever made.

Even behind my Kevlar suit, that _hurt_. I doubled up, winded, and tried to move back, to put space between me and my attacker, who now had friends on the way. I took a hook to the face, which was stopped by my modified riot helmet, while there wasn't any pain, I was shaken, and almost fell off the top of the truck, I brought the handgun up – which by some miracle, I hadn't dropped during the beat-up session – and practically spilled the rest of the magazine into the offending zombie. It pitched over and rolled off the truck with a gurgle as a bullet found its way through the fucker's jugular, serves it bleeding right. Unfortunately though, with my ammunition spent for all but one of my guns – with no time to draw the last I might add – and with more of those oversized monkeys on the way and all but on top of me, there wasn't much time for me to make a decision, at least, not one which would leave me in great shape. Knowing this, I decided to take a gamble, and if it didn't pay off – well I'd take a good odd number of the bastards with me.

I unhooked one of the fragmentation grenades from my webbing, dropping the handgun and punching the closest zombie to me in the gut, knocking it back into its friends, giving me a brief respite which I used in order to take out the TNT and slap it onto the truck's roof. With that done, I took the other frag with my free hand and flicked the pins off both grenades, dropping them next to the TNT. I had five seconds, I needed off the truck. I took off immediately, shoving the zombies in front of me aside, a few of them fell off the truck, all snarling, one of them broke its neck on the road when it hit dirt. One of them swiped at me, and almost made me lose my footing, I stumbled. Four seconds: one of them jumped on my back, clawing at my head and I felt a tug on my shoulder, the thing had sunk its jaws into the padding, man was I glad for that little find. Three seconds: I didn't bother stopping to shake it off, I kept going, I was now on top of the sports car and in front of a small mob of eight undead. Two seconds: I jumped off the boot of the car, tucking myself into a ball, I felt myself crash into one of them, which fell over, unable to stop the momentum of my jump, I landed on top of it, and began to get up, albeit unsteadily with the clingy bugger still on my back. One second: I began to take another running start, when another zombie landed on top of me, and another, and another, until a whole press of writing, snarling, frothing forms pinned me to the ground.

Zero.

I heard a roar, then nothing; the explosion was so loud, so close. Then the concussive force of the blast hit us, and bodies started flying everywhere. I was lifted off my feet and hurled into the air as the TNT detonated, which in turn, ignited the fuel in both the truck and the car it had collided with. I hit the dirt and rolled with it, trying my best to curl into a ball to prevent any limbs getting caught in things and tangled – or snapped. After a few seconds, I allowed myself to get up, my ears ringing and my head aching. I checked my surroundings, a few of the undead who had been scattered, but not killed by the explosion were getting up, and looking for prey. One of them was barely two metres away, and began to get to its feet, but the explosion must have done some internal damage, because the thing moved slowly, and wobbled quite a bit – didn't stop it from trying to reach me though. I took my shotgun from off my back and was about to load a shell in before I noticed that the pump was missing, and the barrel was bent a little. Scowling, I tossed the useless weapon aside and drew my grandfather's service revolver, walking over to the thing and executing the abominable thing with a round to the skull. The remainder of the mob followed suit, with only one providing me with any semblance of trouble. In the end though, I stood victorious, a good forty/fifty of the things were dead, most of those burning by the now completely destroyed vehicles. I felt... Jubilant. Not quite avenged my family yet, but I'd taken out a good chunk of them; hopefully it'd ease their souls. I also felt like crap, taking a few blows as well as being as close as I'd been to an explosion can take it out on you. Oh well, least I wasn't too far from home this time.

I turned, about to head back, when a shot rang out. I heard the bullet ricochet off the ground barely an inch from my feet, and spun around, ready to tell the arsehole that I wasn't a zombie. I stopped, as I noticed two people about twenty metres down the road, one, an absolutely massive bastard, was clad in gear similar to mine – riot gear covering him from head to toe, only his didn't seem to have as many gaps as mine did around the joints, which told me he was either very stupid, or a civvie who had scrounged around. The guy next to him had no such armour, a fairly small bloke, 'bout five foot five, wearing nothing but a tattered wife beater, and equally shitty-looking jeans, he had no shoes. The guy was balding, with dirty, unkempt brown hair, which fell to the back of his neck. He looked at me, then to the man next to him, who leaned in towards him. He was probably whispering to the small man, judging by how he was nodding occasionally, until finally, the big man stood tall again, and the small man called out to me.

"Andy desires to know who you are and where your haven is." He had a reedy, pitiful, slightly high-pitched voice, the sort even an eight year old would laugh at would it try to order it about. I kept my revolver out of sight, there wasn't much indication at the moment that these two _weren't_ considering trying to shoot me dead and strip me for my gear.

"Andy? That yours or his name?" I asked back, I had a feeling that it was the latter, but it paid to check.

"Andy is the name of the ruler of this blighted town." I was stunned. I had not expected _anything_ like that.

"What? You some kind of self-proclaimed king or something? Big boy got a king complex or something huh?" I asked, more aggressively this time.

"Andy does no-" the small man started.

"Shut the fuck up dicksuck! I was talking to the seven-foot tin-can next to you!" These two were beginning to wear down my patience already; I had a nasty feeling that this was going to turn sour any moment now.

The small man cowered back slightly, while the big man, Andy I presumed, tilted his head slightly, as if amused by my call-out, he leaned in towards the small man, and then I lost it.

"Don't you fucking dare think you're so high-and-mighty that you have to use that scrawny bone sack to convey your every word! You mute or something huh? You got a weak voice? Or one what sounds like his?" I gestured to the lackey "Guess what Terminator! I don't give a shit! You want something? _You _tell it to my face, not your little boyfriend!" I finished ranting, taking some deep breaths, not quite able to remember the last time I'd been so pissed at another person. I looked at Andy, then to the small man, who seemed to be listening again, I put my hand to my face.

"Calm down Greg, don't get mad, don't get mad, mad people make mistakes and end up gutted on the pavement" I said to myself, several times for good measure. The big guy really thought he was above speaking to other people; the sheer arrogance astounded and frustrated me to no end. I silently resolved to take this guy down a peg or two, somehow, some time, he was not going to get away with this. Then there was the guy next to him, acted almost like a herald, no, a _slave._ Either he enjoyed this sort of role-play or Andy had done something to get him to act like that. The mere thought worried me to no end – what if there were more like these two? Had the last scraps of humanity left on earth all reverted to some form of perverted feudalism? The little man spoke up again, ending my train of thought.

"What?" I asked, still angry, the little man sighed, then tried again.

"I said, peasant, that Andy originally only intended to requisition half of your food and ammunition. However as you have slandered him and this unworthy servant, he now asks that you surrender all your items to him, and become his willing subject, or face the consequences." He let the last word hang, but I didn't care, I was astounded, I was actually unable to process what I'd just heard.

"You bleeding _WHAT?_" I roared, regaining my wits.

If the explosion didn't do it, that did. I heard it, so did they. The horde, all around us had awoken, and unleashed a collective howl that chilled me to my very core. It sounded wrong – a sound no human being should make. I turned around, they weren't here yet, but they would be, and I didn't have nearly enough ammunition (or weapons for that matter) to take them on, and – as well-armoured as he appeared to be – neither did Andy or his little goon, the latter of whom was looking around all jittery, truly afraid.

I cursed, this wasn't the time for feuds. I turned back to the pair.

"You know what _my lord_?" the title dripping with sarcasm "you help me through this and I'll -"

Then Andy shot me in the chest.

Aaand that's Chapter Two (or One). Anyways, I'm off to France for two and a bit weeks, so chances are I'm not going to be doing any writing/typing at all – not that I really did much of that anyway. So hopefully, this'll sustain those few of you who actually read this. Oh, and if what I've got on FF isn't enough? I've got an account of Fiction Press, so check that place out, if not to take a look at the 'original' stuff I've done, then to look at the work of some of the others, cause believe me, there are some absolutely cracking authors over there.

Oh also, very brief British-American dictionary for those of you who don't have any knowledge Britannia-wise.

Pavement – sidewalk

Ciao.


	3. The Pair

I was finally able to write a chapter 2 that I felt somewhat happy with. I make no excuses for the delay as that'd just bore you stupid and it's not why you come to this site in the first place.

**Last Man Standing Chapter Two: The Pair**

I woke up royally pissed off.

Well, how exactly would _you_ have felt if you woke up strung from a lamp (and honest to God I _still_ wonder how exactly they did it with time to spare) hanging from your feet with well over a thousand mindless, blood hungry drones reaching and snapping at you. The fucker had taken all my gear, my shotgun, handgun, everything on me. I suppose I should count myself lucky I still had all my Kevlar on (evidently they'd not been able to work the numerous straps and zippers I'd added over time – the restless dead are fond of grabbing and tearing), but it'd hardly matter if I was trapped under a dog pile of writhing flesh.

I fancy myself a mite different from most – when the world ended, people panicked, threw their shit around, flipped out, turned tail and ran. Well, me and my unit had a saying 'there's nothing waiting for you backwards but a court martial'. So for me the only real option was forwards – or at least it would have been were my unit still alive, or if I was even still a part of my homeland's army, so when the dead came a-knocking, they might have gotten a shock when they found themselves going toe to toe with not another frightened civilian – but an ex-marine who booted the door in their faces and laughed as he took their entrails and wore them like a scarf.

Alright that last part was an exaggeration but I think I've made my point. I don't get frightened, I get _mad_, and some jive nutjob who fancied himself the King of the suck had jacked all my gear and would probably get away with it too. I wasn't taking any of that lying down, not for a nanosecond. But, even through the haze of red that clouded my vision, I knew that if I fell, I was most assuredly dead, which was a problem because there wasn't really anywhere else to go _but_ down. Unless I tried some insane tricks –

No. Stupid thought, even _if_ I had the physique of David Belle – which I don't – I was wearing several pounds of Kevlar and protective gear, and suppose I made it to the window ledge, what then? The dead would crowd at the bottom – or start climbing themselves – and I'd just be sitting there until my strength gave out and I plummeted into their waiting embrace. It seemed that I was completely screwed.

But like they say, fate finds a way, even if I don't actually believe in fate, but I digress.

Several shots pierced the air, and almost immediately, a dozen of the dead fell. Some on the outside of the horde milled in confusion, turning and twisting their heads, listening for more shots, or trying to discern the shooter's location. Another four cracks and another six dead fell, three killed by the same bullet, though with any decent rifle and a crowd this size, it wasn't a particularly noteworthy feat. More and more of the dead began peeling away from the crowd, stumbling towards the gunshots, until one of the rabid fucks further away stood stock still, growling like a guard dog that's spotted an intruder. It broke into a full sprint seconds later, heading for a fire escape on the side of an apartment building, through my swinging from the post, I could just make out two human shapes, and whoever they were – they were in the process of saving my bacon.

Touched as I was that they'd risk their lives for a complete stranger, I wouldn't have done the same – not with that many dead littering the streets. More and more were beginning to converge on the fire escape, and though the ladder wasn't up, that hadn't seemed to stop many of them before. The crowd below me though was thinning rapidly, the prospect of fresh, within-reach prey enticing them much more than a scrap hanging from a rope well out of their grasp for the moment. Another few shots and I felt bullets whip past me; I yelped in surprise – were these guys actually trying to kill _me?_

I felt one smack into my side, and, good lord above, I felt the bullet pierce skin, my ribs suddenly flared as well, reminding me that I'd caught a shot to the chest not long beforehand. I groaned and huffed, taking deep breaths to try and reduce the shock, it wasn't working, and I felt my head spin and my vision fade. Funny thing about shock while hanging upside down – you feel strangely weightless –

_Thump_

Ow.

Now that wasn't shock, that was me landing on top of a few undead, I was down. Had those two been trying to free me? Well, whether they intended it or not, I was down and I was going to _survive_. I clawed at the rope binding my feet, and it fell apart in moments. I hopped to my feet, slugging the closest deadite in the face. Fatigue had dulled the impact though, and it only stunned it for a moment. More were closing in on me, and others were turning back. I clothes-lined another one and sprinted for an opening in the crowd, pain flared in my chest and I remembered that I had a bullet lodged in my chest somewhere, probably a small calibre round – a larger one would have gone right through.

Pushing the thought aside, I made for a looted convenience store. My apartment hideout wasn't that far, but I didn't want to lead this many undead to my gates – especially if there was a chance that Andy and his little lap-dog had already paid it a visit. I jumped through the smashed window, landing awkwardly and straining my ankle, but I didn't stop – I couldn't stop. I was barely a metre from that position when I heard the thump of feet behind me, they were already inside, I'd have to pray that there was either a way out or a weapon. I vaulted the cashier's desk; the machine had been taken long ago – like some poor uneducated soul actually thought money was _worth_ a damn now. I stuck the landing and promptly tripped over a corpse, more specifically, the cashier's corpse.

She had used to be a pretty young thing, the daughter of a man who couldn't afford to send her to university or college, a little shy around people but a decent girl. Some fuck had stabbed her with a screwdriver, her complexion had long since dulled and the early stages of rot had begun to set in. I tore my eyes away and fixated them on the screwdriver that was lodged in her neck. Dried blood stained the tool, it looked almost brown now, I turned back, glancing at the closest one, which was even now hopping up and over the desk shielding me from the horde. I stuck the bastard in the face, stabbing the thing three more times before dropping it and turning to my next victim, who dropped with several puncture wounds leaking dark crimson.

I don't recall much of that encounter, just a repetition of the same event over and over for almost ten minutes. See a snarling, grimy face, push forwards, retract arm, lock onto next snarling grimy face, extend arm. When I finally snapped out of my haze I was alone among a pile of bodies, my suit was practically painted red, and my ribs hurt like hell. Strangely enough I seemed to have forgotten all about the actual puncture wound, maybe it had been my imagination? I checked my side. Bloody. Nope, it was there. Must have been a _really_ small calibre round, maybe .22? Oh well.

I trekked over to the store window, peering outside, checking to see if the coast was clear. I can only tell you the surprise I had.

Two people stood where I had been hanging, one seemed to be standing guard, another was searching the bodies. Looking for me? Maybe they'd mistaken me for one of them? I shook the thought from my mind. Impossible. The restless dead don't attack each other. Maybe they were like the oh-so-glorious monarch of the city and wanted my shit. It's either that or they were actually trying to save my trapped arse, but then why shoot the rope? An accident? Though now that I really see them up close, one looks like a fairly petite female, the other on lookout seems like he's seen much better days, and that's just from the way he's hunched over like he's run a marathon.

Fuck it.

My instincts are screaming that I'm a complete trusting dope for doing this, I tell them to stick it and step out, praying that these guys aren't really good actors, or have a backup crew somewhere out of sight.

"Hello? Lookin' for me?" I ask.

Both stand ramrod straight and whip around to face me, but neither raises their weapons. Classic newbie mistake, it's a wonder these two have survived this long with that kind of attitude, though I'm glad for it, for one it means I have just that little bit longer to get out of dodge before they bring the lead storm.

Almost immediately after, the guy hunched over remembers what kind of world this is and raises the rifle in his hands. It's a kiddie gun, a .22 training rifle, probably what got me in the side –

Oh yeah. I'm still bleeding.

I take a step back when a wave of fatigue hits me; it's not just the blood loss. The girl raises her gun too, a beat-up army rifle – wonder if she's any good with it. The old man – and I can tell because his hood's fallen off and his hair's silvering and his skin looks like old leather, though maybe he's just tough.

"Keep away from him Alana." The man growls, he probably meant for it to be much quieter than that, but his voice is so gravelly I can make out every syllable. He sounds like a cancer patient, old then. The girl takes a tentative step backwards. They're afraid I'm infected, then I remember that I'm covered head to toe in crimson, and probably don't look much prettier than some of my victims.

"Don't worry old man. If I was infected, chances are you'd know by now."

He doesn't lower the rifle; though I'm certain he knows as well as I do that it'd do all of jack-shit. The girl's gun on the other hand is another matter entirely.

"Do you live around here?" The girl asks.

I stop for a moment, and consider my options. On the one hand, they could just waste me right now the moment I say 'yes'. On the other... There is no other. They'll probably just waste me.

"I don't have to answer that." I reply, my voice wavers, the blood loss hasn't done much yet but give it a few more minutes...

The old man sighs and he lowers his hood, a grey stubble shrouds much of his ageing skin, when he was younger it probably looked like fine chocolate. Age hasn't treated him fairly, though in this day and age, I doubt anyone cares much what the guy next to them looks like as long as they aren't trying to gouge out their eyes. The girl by comparison is much fairer, would probably even be considered pretty if she had a shower. Short blonde hair, looks like she cut it herself – did a pretty bad job of it but I suppose it'd be more serviceable if it didn't catch on shit. She looks like she's in her mid/early-twenties, younger than me then. I don't know how old the man is, but he's got to be one tough mother to survive as long as this; and I've seen hardcore commandos drop like flies in the first week of this infection.

"Kid if we wanted your shit we'd not have bothered trying to free you, just snuck around, avoided the crowd, left you hanging there. As it is, we've been on the move non-stop for the last three days. These old bones aren't nearly what they used to be and despite Alana's brave face" he motioned to the young woman "I can tell she's as dog-tired as I am. Now we freed you hoping that you'd have a place, or know the area well enough in order to help us find somewhere to lay low for a while."

I stall for a moment, processing what he's telling me. It doesn't seem like a geezer and the girl could possibly do much harm to me while I'm kitted up like this, though I don't like the idea of taking them back to my hideout one bit. For all I know these two might be lackeys of that limp-dick Andy – it seems a little farfetched to be sure, but I consider it all the same, string me up, have two of his goons just 'happen' to pass me by, save me out of the goodness of their hearts and when my back is turned and my hideout's open – BAM. Shiv in the back and all my shit's gone. I don't plan on leaving my job half-finished, hell it's not even down to an eighth-finished yet.

But now that I look at them again, the circles under the old man's eyes make him look like someone's rubbed charcoal in his face. The girl doesn't look that much better, and I notice the tell-tale signs of fatigue in the way her arms shake and dip every so often, clutching that rifle like it's her one constant. I sigh to myself. Looks like I'll be pulling an all-nighter.

"Fine. I got a place. Suppose I owe you for springing me. Follow me, before more of 'em show up." With that said I trudge towards my apartment, hearing footsteps behind me.

God I missed that noise.

About three hours later the three of us are in the safe house. The two of them are conked out on a couple makeshift mattresses made from various cushions and duvets I raided from other rooms that weren't locked. Did a quick sweep of the building too. Empty. I didn't think there'd be many inside what with all the noise the crowd made outside and the fact that they seem to home in on potential bloodshed like flies to a muck-spreader but the little bastards seem to have a habit of appearing out of nowhere.

I didn't have my rifle trained on the sleeping pair, no my attention was directed outside, I'd had the strangest impression that I was being watched. I don't like being watched. It means I've been spotted, and that usually means trouble. I scoff, then glance back at the two prone figures.

_Always_ means trouble.

I'm sure that if circumstances had played out differently when this whole infection thing had hit, I'd be much more welcoming to the two. As it happens, I've watched my favourite pet get ripped to bits in front of my eyes, my parents died screaming when a gas tanker blew up on the freeway out of town. To make matters worse, the precious few friends I had left were picked off one by one as we fought our way back here. I never found out what killed them. Definitely infected – no sane person would enact that kind of savagery on a person. Trouble is that there's fucking _millions _of the drones out there. How do I know which one's the one that started it all – the one that spooked the kiddie with the cop gun on the freeway, the one that tore open Fergie's torso like a Christmas present, the one that decapitated Greg and all but dismembered him. The only consolation I have is for my bloody dog. I saw all of them, memorised their faces, took probably a little _too_ much pleasure hunting them down. Some would probably call it torture what I did to them. I wonder if they even feel pain. Hope they do. Animals.

I'm gonna burn out soon. Can feel it coming, everyday I'm out for a little longer, and everyday I come back with a few more scratches and bruises. Eventually hours are going to turn into days, into weeks, and scratches and bruises are going to turn into broken bones and shattered limbs. The only saving grace there for me is that I get to murder more of them. A thought suddenly occurs to me. What if I kill every infected in this city? Move elsewhere? Probable. Not optimal though, I've lived in this city my whole life, a few vacations abroad but nowhere cross-country. I'll need maps, and something to travel in. A car? Pfft. One mob and I'd be no more than tinned food, same with a bus or van. An armoured car? APC? As if. I don't have any idea how to drive one. Foot? Seems like my best option, hardly safe, though honestly I think it might attract less undesired attention than if I drove around in a moving can that all but announced my position to the infected. Alright, I was actively _looking_ for infected but I prefer it if I know what direction they're coming from.

A ruffle of sheets behind me, I turn my head. The old man's getting up, thought he was tired, does he know I'm here? If he moves for the exit, I'll take him down.

He doesn't.

He looks around, rests on me, then stumbles toward me, taking a seat on the floor, casting a wary glance outside before resting his weary hazel eyes on me.

"Listen kid I don't think I properly thanked you for letting us hide out here for the time being." He put a hand to the back of his neck, scratching it tiredly. A nervous gesture, but he looked it not. I didn't respond, had the feeling he was about to say more.

"Who exactly strung you up there in the first place kid? There more people around here?" He asked, his voice was almost ridiculously gravelly, hopefully a good rest would fix that up.

"Yeah there are" I replied honestly "not the kind of people you'd be interested in meeting though."

I half-expected him to raise an eyebrow, instead he furrowed his brows and sighed.

"Was it a big fella wearing a getup like yours?" I shot my head around, instantly alert. I think it'd be very safe to say that since the incident yesterday he'd been placed somewhere near the top of my 'to-kill' list, if only because I could actually make out his features, that, his attitude and the fact that he was human – intelligent, _dangerous_, and a total arsehole.

"I figured as much. We ran into him yesterday, him and that little weed he calls a herald if you can believe that shit. Asked us to give up our gear and for me to hand over Alana to him... I swear the look that pathetic wretch was giving her – I wanted to tear him up then and there, probably would have done but for this thing called age. As it is, there were three of us then, he was walking wounded, burning up something fierce, probably would have turned within the hour. He saved us. Brought the noise – and the infected, then charged. Crazy little bastard got cut up in the first ten seconds, but he –" he stopped. Didn't matter, I think I knew how this one ended.

"Sorry I've been yakking on all this time and I've not even bothered introducing myself." He extended his arm.

"Tom. Tom G-"

"No last names." I stated, with finality. He looked taken aback.

"No last names. No attachments. No grief. That's how you keep your head. How I've kept mine." _Mostly._

Tom nodded. Understanding? Maybe.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Tom, names are for people who're going to heaven when they die. I've not done nearly enough here to earn my ticket yet." He raised a brow, but didn't push it further.

I stood up, suddenly feeling tired, I needed a lie down, the bullet wound was dressed and I'd taken a painkiller (which, strangely enough, seemed to be lying around _everywhere_, it's like someone raided a big chemist and just decided to hide the shit everywhere like the damned Easter Bunny) but I'd been through a lot in the last twelve hours. I decided to have a quick bite and then get some shuteye – the all-nighter's going to have to wait. Just have to hope that if these two do decide to cut my throat they do it when I'm not conscious.

I bid Tom goodnight and get off to my room.

I still have that feeling I'm being watched.

The prey moved away from its hideout. It had been tracking the prey for days now, it was getting impatient. Cold ones had swarmed prey before it could pounce – when the tough-prey appeared. Tough-prey attacked the soft-prey and the slow-prey, this confused it. It had never seen prey quarrel with itself before.

It slithered slowly from its hiding place in the shadows, and, with its spring-like limbs, propelled itself into the air, catching the wall of the building opposite the prey's and – in the split-second of contact with the building – immediately launched itself upwards, landing with an unnatural grace on the roof on all fours. It sniffed the air and turned its head south-bound, then back to the prey's habitat. It would have to wait. New prey was close. New prey was wounded.

The predator sprung away. Not five minutes later, a gunshot, followed by a painful shriek, pierced the silence that permeated the dead city, and then the silence reigned once more.

There you go. Exams are looming just over the horizon for me, and have been eating my time up until now. Hopefully when they're all done in the next month or so I'll have much more time to write up on this and my other stories.


End file.
